


i'll have to say i love you in a song

by lavieradieuse



Category: tronnor - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tronnor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6392278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavieradieuse/pseuds/lavieradieuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Troye’s usually good at wording how he feels, choosing what he wants to show the world through careful thought and handpicked sentences, but he never seems to have words for Connor.</p><p>The making of "for him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll have to say i love you in a song

**Author's Note:**

> title: "I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song," by Jim Croce.

One.

It is 4am, and Troye’s eyes are rimmed with red, the soft streetlights highlighting the increasingly angular planes of his face.

It is the fourth night in a row that he hasn’t slept, and more than ever, living a life he has always craved seems like the world is caving in, like his skinny body might dissipate if he tries hard enough, like one movement would dissolve the supposedly infinite atoms that make up his shell.

He keeps the lights off because at least then the negative space that engulfs him is less visible to his throbbing eyes, makes it less obvious he is alone. Cold bed sheets are good for nights when sweat, utter adoration, and slightly toned arms caress his body, but tonight, they only remind him how quiet it is and how alone he is.

Even the night crew on tumblr has quieted, and to be honest, Troye’s not sure if the night crew is the Sydney night crew or the Perth night crew or the LA night crew or maybe it’s the London night crew—nonetheless, even tumblr is dead and he feels little like he might be dead too. 

Either way, there is no one to remind him he is still alive.

He could risk his friends seeing his Skype avatar active when he clicks on the icon, but a small, fragile part of him wants nothing more than exactly that. Not moments later, a call rings in. Connor. Of course.

“Hey, Troye!” Connor’s voice is enough to shatter the thick glass enveloping the room, and suddenly Troye feels a little warmer, like the goose bumps on his arms have been scared back into hiding.

Connor notices. Of course he notices. But he doesn’t say a word, only lightly giggling about the jumper he bought today and describing in total detail the sunset he saw with the photographer he was called up to work with. And for the first time in maybe forever, Troye thinks, his ribs don’t feel like they are about to implode.

Instead, they feel like they need to expand in order for his heart to continue swelling. He knows anatomy enough in the back of his mind to know that there is definitely no way his heart can really expand that much, but here, now, he feels like his ribcage might burst open.

There’s a cliché image of birds breaking free of a cage in his mind, and while he can’t stand to compare himself out loud to that despicably cheesy image, when he finally logs off and Connor wishes him good night with a knowing smile (it’s 5:27am), he dreams of birds swirling in bright green treetops, a little like the striking green that still makes its way through a blurry computer screen.

 

Two.

Slanted sunlight filters through Connor’s eyelashes, and Troye is pretty sure his heart has stopped for more than a beat upon opening his eyes to this view.

It’s not often Troye gets to wake up early—well, earlier than Connor, at least—and while he would be complaining any other day, in any other bed, being here, in this bed, with this boy—well, he’s pretty sure he’s never been luckier. He stares for so long that a sudden flash of green finally jumpstarts his heart again, and he scrambles to hide the heat that creeps up to his ears, ducking under the covers to Connor’s quiet, shaking laughter.

It’s not often Troye gets flustered, but every time Connor catches him watching (which, Troye thinks, is getting more and more often), he can’t help but feel as if floating fairy lights are casting him in a glow, the way Connor looks at him. He would tell Connor how gorgeous he looks in this light, but he’s not sure he can.

Words might break the silence that encases them, and in this moment, there is nothing more important to Troye than maintaining the quiet.

 

Three.

Connor types furiously into his computer, mouth slightly open. Troye doesn’t even pretend he’s staring anymore, just because he knows Connor won’t acknowledge him.

‘His work is important,’ apparently, and can’t be bothered, and while Troye teases him about his concentration and furrowed (and furry) brows, he appreciates that this is okay, that they are okay, that this sort of quiet is alright between them. It sort of makes the whirlwind of world that has pervaded the album work and the tour preparation and Connor’s (if Troye had to say so himself) increasingly good videos and product launches seem a little more manageable.

There is something so overwhelmingly heavy on—in—his chest, and it unfurls into his throat and he feels like crying and it doesn’t even make sense because all he’s doing is watching Connor, but it feels like he is about to explode, or burst into tears. It is overwhelming, looking at this boy, knowing he gets to call him ‘his.’ It might be impulse (he’s not sure) when he reaches out to grab Connor’s flying hand, fingers intertwining in the familiar grooves between Connor’s surprisingly skinny knuckles.

Perhaps it’s because he expects the slowly growing out ragged edges of Connor’s nervously bitten fingernails to extend to the callouses on Connor’s palms, or maybe it’s because when Connor’s hands wrap around his, he feels like he is engulfed, protected, shielded.

Connor looks up, then, eyes sure, a small grin playing at the tips of his thin lips as Troye presses his to the soft back of Connor’s hand.

“What’s gotten into you today?” Connor’s eyes shine with amusement. Seeing Connor this relaxed, this soft, makes Troye’s heart go soft, too, and he presses several more kisses to draw constellations up Connor’s arm.

 

Four.

Bright lights, city sounds, this time, Troye thinks, he’s having the time of his life and it’s not ringing like a drone.

A scream brings him to his senses, as Kayla swoops in on him and drags him to the mosh and craziness that lies within Perth’s hottest gay club. Hottest, because it plays music that could hit a five on a Richter scale; hottest, because the number of people inside should probably pose a fire hazard; hottest, because, well, the boys.

A step inside and it’s as if steam has risen from the depths of hell to engulf this tiny joint with smoke and fire. A step inside and three of Perth’s finest sidle up to him, arms bulging, and, well, other areas bulging, too. Kayla winks at him, wagging her tongue at him, before she runs off.

There are too many things for his eyes to take in right now, and there are sticky fingers gripping at his biceps and his shirt and he thinks, maybe it would be nice to relax a bit, let loose, get some alcohol running through his veins. It’s strange being free of all inhibitions, being surrounded by boys who want the same thing as him.

He decides that it’s absolutely exhilarating, moments later, when he’s on his second beer, sufficiently tipsy (and a little drunk, to be honest). He’s always been a lightweight, and with so many temptations running wild around him, he cannot help but feel himself pulled in by the grinding lights, pulsating music, and hot boys.

He also can’t help but wonder, momentarily, what Connor is doing back home in LA. Is he catching up on sleep after a marathon documentary session? Did he decide to wake up early? Is he already on his second cup of coffee?

Connor knows he’s here right now, yet he’s okay with it. Troye knows he doesn’t need permission to go out without his boyfriend, but he still tells Connor every time, anyways.

If anything, it gives them something to laugh about on the phone, how they’re on total opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to finding entertainment. Opposites attract, Troye grins blearily, his front two teeth brushing his lower lip as the thought courses through his facial features. He’s lucky.

 

Five.

Serenity comes in the form of sunsets and sunflowers (and sunshine in the form of Connor). These are moments, he thinks, he’ll remember forever.

Getting to walk hand in hand with Connor, shoulders occasionally brushing, stealing glances at _his boyfriend_ , watching the sun highlight the little moles on Connor’s face, feeling more warmth emanating from the boy next to him than the setting sun, seeing the light breeze that ruffles through Connor’s effortlessly fluffy hair—it makes his heart hurt a little.

It’s as if a year into this relationship he still hasn’t pulled himself out of the honeymoon phase. His heart doesn’t beat all too fast anymore, though, not like the first days; instead, his heart swims through honey, sending deep, almost melancholic waves through every joint of his being. He’s not sad—in fact, it’s quite the polar opposite. He feels infinite here, as cliché as his conscience reminds him it is, and this is when he thinks he finally understands Connor’s love for The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

Falling in love feels as if his every atom has been extended beyond even the confines of time, and he is inexplicably happy, here, now. With Soak playing in the background, lying in a sunflower field in the middle of where Connor calls home, he realizes that home doesn’t have to be Perth, or where his parents and siblings are.

Home can be tall green stalks reflected in Connor’s eyes, or sunshine yellow petals paralleling Connor’s giggles, or flaky thin layers of colours in the sky that still can’t express how big and free he feels right now.

Home can be images, memories, places, songs.

Home can be Connor.

 

Six.

It’s not often Troye wakes up to an empty bed anymore. For the first time since he can remember, though, his back isn’t curved into a slightly softened chest, and he’s cold. Connor likes to steal the blankets. Troye usually doesn’t care, because Connor’s nimble (and a little hairy) limbs always find their way around Troye’s tiny frame in the night.

Tonight, however, Troye wakes with a start, tiny goose bumps, from the cold and the disconcerting aloneness lining his shoulders and upper back and the tops of his thighs. The panic races past his throat, eyes darting from window to window. He knows Connor likes watching the stars, says they keep him company on the darkest nights.

And there he is, a silhouette of a boy whose fluffy hair and pretty eyes and blushy cheeks mask the galaxies swirling in his mind. Fitting, really, for a boy who finds solace in the night sky.

Connor doesn’t believe him when Troye tells him the thoughts in his head are alright, and that they’re beautiful. Connor doesn’t believe Troye when he says that his hair is the softest thing he’s ever touched, or that his eyes are the deepest forest he’s ever been in, or that his laugh is the twinkliest star he’s ever witnessed. Connor doesn’t believe it when Troye’s arms tell him he is okay, and he doesn’t believe it when Troye murmurs gossamer strands of comfort into his hair.

But he allows Troye to whisper until his muscles stop firing, and he allows Troye to hold him until his eyes close. He allows himself to be engulfed by skinny limbs and loving words, and even if he doesn’t always believe them, he allows them to seep in sometimes, in memory and in moments of utter darkness.

And Troye holds his boy until the stars dim and the first rays of sunshine wash over a boy filled to the brim with sunshine. He holds him, here and everywhere.

 

Seven.

Connor is smiling at his phone again and Troye cannot help the ping of jealousy that courses through his spine—this is _their_ coffee date, and Connor’s not even paying attention to _him_. He kicks Connor under the table, earning a sliver of a smile from him, who barely glances up before going back to his screen.

“Connor. _Connor._ Con. Connie. Fucking. Frannie.”

“What, babe?”

“Pay attention to me,” he whines, kicking Connor until he finally receives what he wants: eyebrows raised, phone down, a tan laced boot playing footsie with his platform Converse.

He reaches for Connor’s latte, swirls of foam still intact.

“It’s going to be cold.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Mine,” Connor sighs, but Troye can see his tiny upper lip trembling to tuck under itself and force Connor to grin back at him.

It’s a very loving teasing, he reminds himself, but he still reaches his left hand to finger the frayed edges of Connor’s jeans, cupping his palm, lightly tracing his kneecap.

“Do you think knee telepathy is a thing?” he giggles, trying to voice his thoughts.

“Would it be knee-SP?” Connor’s eyes light up the whole coffee place, brighter than the supposedly aesthetic swirly lamps hanging above them.

And while Troye rolls his eyes so hard they might roll out of their sockets, his left hand shoots out from under the table to grab Connor’s in an attempt to put how giddy he’s feeling into movement, action, physical touch.

 

Eight.

He’s not good with words.

There are moments when he looks up from the kale salads Connor _makes_ him eat (though, if he’s honest, they’re starting to grow on him) and catches his breath because Connor’s already watching him with utmost adoration, or when he gets home (Home. Shit. Home. That’s what he calls it. Home.) and he actually has someone to tell about the lyrics he spilled onto the page today with Alex.

It is overwhelming to be caught, time and time again.

More and more frequently, he finds words caught in his throat, like Connor’s gaze is enough to halt even his subconscious entirely, and it rips through him in terrible, great waves. He doesn’t know how to tell Connor thank you, or tell him that this, this heaviness, feels like love. Perhaps Taylor Swift was right—he knows now why they lost their minds and fought the wars, and why she’s spent her whole life trying to put it into words.

It’s virtually impossible. But maybe, just maybe, if Taylor Swift can, he can sing it, too.

 

Nine.

“I have a gift for you.”

It’s not Connor’s birthday. It’s not quite their anniversary.

In fact, there’s nothing special about today, except that Troye’s fingers have never trembled so much, his heart has never beat so hard, and every time Connor texts him, he thinks he might break and blurt out his secret. It’s a little like the first time they kissed: anxious, but real. Full of apprehension, yet sure.

He keeps it in though, patiently allowing Connor to greet him at the door after today’s “writing session.” He can’t help but kiss him a little extra breathlessly, running his shaking fingers up Connor’s arm, pulling Connor onto the couch. Troye planned this moment so that his headphones wouldn’t be tangled, but of course, like any other grand gesture he tries to execute, something ends up screwed up.

He can’t even bring himself to take his eyes off of his phone, quickly selecting the track and holding out the ear buds for Connor to take.

Eyes closed. Waiting.

The longest three minutes and twenty-nine seconds he’s lived.

Fingers slide through his, and his eyes flutter open.

It takes a second to register the tears and the look of deep, shining admiration in Connor’s eyes before he’s pulled in.

He hears the words, “I love you,” about forty times in the next twenty minutes, and though he would roll his eyes because he _literally_ told Connor that he didn’t have to say “I love you” to say “I love you,” he’s glad Connor gets it.

He loves him, too.

**Author's Note:**

> i kind of just needed to get this off my chest because it weighs heavily, and i've been trying to write this for months. i still don't love it, but i can't hold onto it anymore or it might never be finished. might be the last thing i write for this fandom, just because i can't get anything finished, ever, and it adds so much anxiety to something i wish i could enjoy doing. it's been a fun run, my friends.
> 
> just wanted to remind you all lovely humans that we're just witnesses--that's all we'll ever be. whatever will be, will be. take care of yourselves. the boys will, too. <3
> 
> sending you all lots of love.


End file.
